


The Outlaws

by TwinEnigma



Series: Misc YJAM fills [28]
Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dead Robins, GFY, Gen, Lazarus Pit, Prompt Fill, Temporary Character Death, You Have Been Warned, Young Justice Anon Meme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2019-11-28 17:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18211163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinEnigma/pseuds/TwinEnigma
Summary: The Outlaws are coming for blood.  All are guilty.  All will pay their pound of flesh.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posting and de-anoning, mostly for my own convenience.
> 
> This version does have some edits and fixes I was unable to do, due to the anon nature of the meme.

                “Okay, kiddies, I hate to _cut and run_ especially when we’ve been having so much _fun_ , but I’ve got to go,” the Joker says, smiling as he adjusts his tie. He looms in the doorway of the warehouse, pulling on a coat over his bloodstained clothes. “It’s been a _smashing_ experience.”

                There is no response from the six teens lying prone on the blood-spattered warehouse floor.

                “Well, maybe it was a bit more fun for me than you.  I’m just guessing, since you’re being awfully quiet,” the Joker says, adjusting his coat. “Anyway, be good, do your homework and be in bed by nine.”

                He pauses, giving them one last look, and his eyes lock on the youngest teen, Robin, the boy wonder.  “And do tell the folks I said _hello._ ”

                The Joker laughs, high-pitched and horrible, and leaves, slamming the door shut behind him. There’s the sound of a lock clicking closed with ominous finality and his laughter quickly fades away.

                Only then does Robin open his eyes. He rolls onto his side and, though every move is agony, he manages to maneuver himself into a position where he can pull his cuffed hands under his feet and to a more useful position. Standing is pure agony and his breaths come in ragged, sucking gasps. Still, he’s got other problems to worry about and turns, stumbling on bare feet towards Superboy and the deadly green glow of Kryptonite radiating from the blade in his chest.

                He doesn’t make it. His legs won’t hold him and he falls, landing beside Artemis. She’s barely breathing, but at least she’s breathing – he can’t tell if Kid Flash or Aqualad are anymore, but he’s afraid they aren’t (and oh _god_ , how will he explain this to Wally’s _mom_ ) and Miss Martian’s lost so much blood. If he can just move, if he can just get that Kryptonite away from Superboy, then they can get out of here and wait for help because it’s coming – Batman’s coming, he is, and he’ll bring the League, and everything will be okay.

                And then his heart stops thudding in his chest long enough that he can hear it.

                _Tickticktickticktick_

                Almost automatically, he turns his head and sees the bomb, the barrels of fuel he hadn’t paid attention to since the moment the screaming started and the timer.

                Five seconds.

                Dick Grayson, Robin, closes his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

_Five Years later_

 

               There’s an unbelievable shriek of metal grinding against metal as the meta in the red mask lands on the hood of a car, plunging his fingers into the roof, and twists it apart.

                The pimp inside screams and wets himself in terror, the smell of fresh urine flooding the car.

                “I want his location,” the meta growls and what little was visible of his eyes began glowing an inhuman red. “And you’re trying my patience, _worm_.”

                “D-diff’rent puh-places,” the pimp manages to blubber in between sobs.  “M-moves around.”

                “Come on, I know he uses your merch,” the meta sneers, baring too-white teeth as he reaches into the car and grabs the pimp by his collar.

                He struggles, but the arm holding him is like a steel beam.

                “His location or I put you out of business permanently,” the meta adds, the last word a deadly growl.

                “I-I-ah!  H-Hotel P-Prezzia!  E’ry Wednesday!” the pimp shrieks.

                The masked meta takes a disposable cell phone from his pocket, hits speed dial, and says: “Hotel Prezzia, Wednesday. Bring your dancing shoes.”

                For a moment there is silence and then the masked meta smiles cruelly, pocketing the phone. He lets go of the pimp, dropping him back into the car, and flies away, only to land on a nearby rooftop. There’s a woman there, waiting for him. She, too, is wearing a red mask and she holds a bow in her hands, arrow nocked and ready.

                “O-oh…” the pimp moans, patting down his coat as he struggles to steady himself. His hands are sweaty and shaking heavily as he pulls out his cellphone and nearly drops it. His slick fingers slip on the surface of the display, but he manages to hit dial.

                A second later, he is pinned to the headrest of his seat by an arrow.


	3. Chapter 3

                “It’s not one of mine.”

                “Are you sure, Red?” Ollie’s voice is tense and he knows its Green Arrow asking.

                Roy Harper, formerly known as Speedy, turns the arrow over in his hands. It is black with red fletching and has a custom tip – high grade, well-made but otherwise no different from a tip he’d expect for big game hunting. There are no maker’s marks on it, but it is smaller and he can feel how light and balanced it is.

                “It’s similar, yeah, but it’s not quite right,” Roy says finally, holding it up and tapping the area where he’d normally sign it with his logo. “No signature. It’s _good_ though – weight’s right, fletching’s perfect; this is definitely a custom build. I _almost_ thought I was holding one of mine for a second.”

                He puts it down, noting the way Ollie seems both unsurprised and relieved. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

                “It’s about a case,” Ollie says with the same sort of evasiveness that Roy’s always found infuriating. “Gang war, nothing new.”

                “Except for the fact that you called me up here to talk about arrows,” Roy adds, bitterly, “When you _know_ I’m not in that business. And this better not be about-”

                “This gang’s got a sniper,” Ollie interrupts him. He stubbornly crosses his arms over his chest and turns away. “Whoever it is, they’re good, _real_ good. There’s a short list of people who can perform some of the shots they’ve been doing and we’re on it.”

                “So, what? We’re suspects?” Roy can’t keep the incredulity out of his voice.

                Ollie shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. I wouldn’t call you up to the Watchtower if that were the case. I trust you. I just wanted a second opinion.”

                Roy frowns at his former mentor and adoptive father. Green Arrow never needs a second opinion.  Not for something like this. “You know who it is, don’t you?”

                “Just a hunch, a crazy hunch,” Ollie says. He turns around, approaches, and claps Roy on the shoulder in an awkward and vaguely paternal way. “Look, Roy, the League’s got this. Go home, take care of the Titans, and give Lian a hug for me, okay?”

                Roy knows a dismissal when he hears it, but he still shakes his hand and tugs him into an awkward one-armed hug. There are some battles with Ollie he can’t win and he’s come to terms with that. “Yeah, see you around.”

                He’s almost to the door when Ollie calls out again: “Hey, Roy.  Watch yourself, okay?”

                Roy nods curtly, suspicion curling low in his gut. He knows now that this is far more serious than Ollie wants to let on.


	4. Chapter 4

                The Titans Tower is mercifully quiet when Roy finally returns from the Watchtower. As much as he loves these kids and enjoys being their so-called “Den Mother,” he’s not sure he’s up for dealing with their hijinks tonight, not after the disturbing conversation he’d had with Ollie. It’s not often there are enemies that pop up that give the Justice League enough of any specific brand of trouble to be worried about, much less call for second opinions. The list of known supercriminals who can do that is even shorter, especially _these_ days. And if he has to sit there and mitigate another childish spat between Beast Boy and La'gaan over tofu when there’s a good possibility the crap’s about to hit the proverbial fan, Roy’s pretty sure someone will end up in a cast.

                It isn’t even until he reaches the control room that he realizes there’s anyone still awake.

                He is, however, wholly unsurprised that it’s the second Robin that he finds there, hard at work on something. The kid is a protégé of the Bat, after all, and in some ways, his habits are very much like those of his ill-fated predecessor, if only in passing.

                “Red Arrow, you’re back,” the boy says in an eerie monotone. He doesn’t even look away from the screen for another few moments and when he does, it is masked eyes that greet him. The effect is wholly unsettling.

                That’s _one_ thing Roy can say for certain: Jason Todd is _no_ Dick Grayson. While Jason shares some qualities with Dick, he is in all other ways a complete mystery, one that does not wish to be solved. He treats Roy with the same sort of strange clinical interest that he treats everyone else, as if evaluating tools at his disposal, rather than people with whom he works, and there’s always this sense around him that he may lash out without warning. With Dick, he’d always felt welcome and like there were very few walls between them, aside from the obvious pretense of pretending not to know his civilian identity. He’d felt like an odd combination of friend and big brother of sorts to the boy, and Dick hadn’t really felt it necessary to hide anything around him. But with Jason, Roy finds himself at a complete loss.

                Then again, considering what Roy has been able to deduce about his training…

                Roy clears his throat, willing his mind not to wander down those dark paths, and leans on the doorframe. “So, whatcha working on, Robin?”

                “It’s a case,” the boy pauses, tapping a few keys, and then turns to face him. “Or, rather, a series of related cases the Justice League is looking into lately.”

                His strange conversation with Ollie earlier, unbidden, rises to the front of his mind. “What _kind_ of cases?”

                “Oh, you know, gang wars, drug and arms trafficking,” Robin says, watching Roy intently out of the corner of his eye, and for a moment, Roy feels like the boy knows _exactly_ where he was and who he was talking to.

                Honestly, it wouldn't be surprising if he did. Heck, even half the League still thinks Batman sent him to spy on the Titans - not that he even _needed_ to, since he _built_ most of these systems anyway and probably had a backdoor into everything. Still, Jason is twitchy in a way that Dick never had been - fearful, almost, if he had to put a word to it - and for kids that kind of spooked, keeping an eye out would be par for the course. Jason's just been better trained at it than most.

                Again, Roy wonders just _what the hell_ is going on in Gotham.

                “It’s not unusual for these things to occur every now and again," Robin adds, "Which is probably why the League has only just noticed.”

                Roy frowns, stepping closer. “Noticed what?”

                “The pattern,” he answers. Robin’s fingers practically dance across the keyboard, calling up a map of the United States. Red dots spread like a rash across the screen, heavily condensed around all-too-familiar key points, cities and places Roy knows well: Star City, Central City, Metropolis, Happy Harbor. Robin hits another key. At each point, grainy, blurry or dark photos of a figure in a red, full-face mask appear. A few of these figures are clearly men of different builds and the other two are clearly women, one of whom is carrying a compound bow. From the photos, he can see that several of them are metas with a variety of skills.

                “They’ve been aggressively consolidating crime and eliminating competition in these cities for months now. Word on the street is that they call themselves the Outlaws and they’re working for someone known only as Red Hood,” Robin continues. “Whoever this is, he’s smart and organized, not like your average criminal. He’s had them operating in two man teams, hitting their targets hard and fast, and keeping well under the radar to minimize their exposure. And that’s not all.”

                Robin pauses, looking up at Roy before he adds, “They seem to be able to anticipate patrol routes for the local League members and are familiar with their abilities and combat strategies, implying they have or had access to League intelligence.”

                Roy lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and runs a hand through his hair. So, his gut feeling was right – this was _way_ more serious than Ollie had let on. If someone had truly compromised the Justice League, then they were screwed. He’d have to start prepping the kids for whatever was about to hit them ASAP.

                “Is there any other intel on these guys?” Roy asks.

                Robin tilts his head in a way that suddenly, jarringly, reminds him that this is Jason, not Dick, and he can only barely suppress the shudder that slips down his spine. “Yes,” the boy says, typing quickly. Lists of reported or rumored abilities pop up next to each of the photographed Outlaws.

                “How about anything that would indicate they could come after us or the League?” he asks, starting to read the entries. It’s very odd, but they seem familiar, like he’s seen these somewhere before.

                “It’s likely they will eventually target superheroes,” Robin states, matter-of-factly.

                But Roy doesn’t hear him as his eyes widen with realization and his mouth unconsciously opens in horror.

                “Is something the matter? Did you _notice_ something?” Robin, Jason, asks. There’s a strange, almost eager quality to his voice, as if he’d anticipated… But, there’d be no way he could have…

                Roy takes a breath and blinks, shaking his head. “No… Uh, sorry, Robin, I’m just tired.”

                It’s the lamest excuse, really, but it’s the only one he can think of with his heart thundering in his ears so loud that he’s sure the boy can hear it.

                “If you don’t mind, I’m gonna just,” he pauses and uselessly gestures to the door. “Yeah, I’m going to pass out on my feet. I’d better get back to my rooms.”

                With that, Roy turns and leaves the control room, hurrying down the hall until he can’t feel the boy’s eyes on his back anymore.

                Robin looks back at the computer, makes a few additional keystrokes, and each photo of the Outlaws is joined by another, older photo, from a team now dead and gone. His eyes flick from each one to the next, until they come to rest on the last, a shorter helmeted Outlaw with the red extending down under his leather jacket and onto his shirt. The photo next to it is of a smiling boy, the mask and yellow R standing out at him.

                Robin folds his hands and leans back into his chair, narrowing his eyes at the screen.


	5. Chapter 5

                The Ice Lounge glows blue, a crystalline diamond illuminated from within on the Las Vegas strip. It is the product of five years of bribes, nasty coercion, billions in laundered money and expedient construction. It’s Oswald Cobblepot’s refuge, his sanctum and he is inviolate within its walls, far from the reach of the terror that drove him from his old nesting grounds.

                At least, that is, until _now._

                He frowns in distaste at the man in the gleaming, featureless red helmet that sits at the head of his most expensive table and discreetly shoots a wary glance at the five similarly masked individuals flanking him. He’s heard of these upstarts, the so-called _Outlaws_ and their master, the newest Red Hood. It’s been rather hard to miss them, given the amount of noise they’ve been making – the kind of noise someone in his profession wants to avoid – but he’s no fool and, given what he’s been able to suss out about their abilities, he’s not about to give these newcomers a lesson in how to play the game properly and stop rocking the proverbial boat. No, he’ll leave _that_ to someone else.

                Again, Oswald narrows his eyes at their leader. His contacts have informed him that _this_ Red Hood, unlike the _last_ , is far cannier than he lets on. He’s going to have to be extremely careful.

                “Gentlemen, what brings you to my fine establishment this evening?” he asks with his most charming smile.

                “Come on, now, _Penguin_ , is that any way to greet an old friend?” the seated man asks and he can hear the playfulness dripping off the words.

                Surely, this hooligan doesn’t think Oswald could ever mistake him for the previous Red Hood. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

                “Oh, but we have,” this new Red Hood says, rising from his chair and circling the table. “We go _way_ back, you and I.”

                There’s something about the way this man says the words, the way he moves, that has every animal sense in Oswald’s hind brain screaming to run in ways it hasn’t since he arrived in Vegas.

                “It was in Gotham,” the man says, almost fondly, and then his voice drops menacingly: “You remember _Gotham_ , don’t you, _Oswald_?”

                “Yes, unfortunately, I do,” Oswald says diplomatically, glaring at him. “And I have the dubious honor of recalling your predecessor – before his untimely run in with a chemical vat, that is -, but not _you_.”

                The Red Hood raises his head to look at him through white, eerie lenses and he resists the urge to shudder under the gaze. Then, the Red Hood turns his head away, almost contemplatively. “I’m not surprised. After all, it’s been a long time – five years, in fact. I’ve grown a lot. I’m not as young or as _naïve_ as I used to be.”

                There is a disturbing pause as the featureless mask and its eerie gaze find him again. "Death has a funny way of putting things in perspective.”

                Oswald raises an eyebrow, barely able to conceal the sneer that threatens to curl on his lips. He has little love for the theatrics of this man and, yet, he is only too aware of the palpable threat this Red Hood’s metahuman lackeys exude. Their silence and stillness is particularly unsettling. “I’m not in the business of wasting my time on trivialities,” he states in a clipped tone. “I have a legitimate business to run.”

                The Outlaws shift, seemingly amused, but it’s the Red Hood that speaks and he makes no attempt to hide the mocking tone of his voice this time: “Of _course_ , Oswald. Shall we get down to business, then?”

                The strike comes fast and entirely unexpected. Oswald can’t help the squawk of pain and surprise that issues from his lips as the Red Hood grabs him and slams him back-first into the wall. The force of it leaves him breathless.

                “We know _all_ about your business, _Oswald,_ ” the Red Hood hisses, the white lenses nothing more than menacing slits now. “You’ve been _very_ naughty.”

                “What do you want?” he manages to rasp out, squirming against the iron grip.

                The Red Hood’s grip tightens. “Your cooperation. Ordinarily, we’d _restructure_ your organization from the ground up, but I’m feeling _nostalgic_. We’ll let you keep doing your thing and, in exchange, you’re going to do us a favor.”

                Oswald Cobblepot is no fool. Ordinarily, he’d tell this whelp where he could shove his offer, but he’s been playing this game for far too long. It wouldn’t be wise to press his luck with this one, not with the kind of muscle he has backing him.

                “I’m listening,” he manages.

                The Red Hood drops him, letting him slide to the floor with a thump, and then crouches down in front of him. “Good boy, Oswald. I knew I could count on you. You’ve always been the most sensible of Gotham’s crowd.”

                He doesn’t say anything, settling for glaring at the masked man.

                “Call your old friends, pull your strings,” the Red Hood says, standing and walking away. He reaches into his pocket, pulling something all-too familiar out as he continues, “Put the word out on the street to anyone who will listen – even the League. Don’t be shy about it. Tell them all: vengeance descends to put out the Light. The Outlaws are coming for blood. _All_ are guilty. _All_ will pay their pound of flesh.”

                The battered red shuriken, stained with soot and blood, quivers in the table, its once somewhat comical blinking smile now ominous, and everything suddenly clicks.

                “You?” Oswald breathes, recoiling in horror. “But you’re _dead!”_

                The Red Hood looks over his shoulder, tilting his head slightly to the side, as he says, “You’re right.” He pauses, linking his hands with his Outlaws and becoming transparent, and then adds, “But my bombs are an entirely separate matter.”

                Oswald’s eyes flicker to the shuriken as his visitors sink through the floor and he pales.

                The light stops flashing, a high pitched whine building, and then there is nothing but fire.


End file.
